


References Upon Request

by phipiohsum475



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Body Shy, Doctor John, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, M/M, Student Intern Mycroft, Teen Mycroft, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 00:46:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3589968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Watson stared for just a moment, before blinking and minutely shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “That’s brilliant; how’d you know exactly what I was hiring for?”<br/>“And that should tell you how capable I am at applying the aforementioned skills to the picture at large.” Mycroft grinned smartly, and within ten minutes, he was hired.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>John is 42; Mycroft is 17.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the fam for the beta!

Mycroft looked at himself in the mirror. He shrugged off the charcoal jacket and looked again. He couldn’t do anything about the youth in his face, but he could project the professionalism  he needed to portray. His ginger hair was perfectly coiffed, aside from one unruly curl that he’d been assured by his mother was dignified. He didn’t believe her, of course, but he recognized that he had no say in the matter, so he focused on his dress.

The turquoise shirt was pressed, and his waistcoat cut perfectly to de-emphasize the extra two stone he carried. His brother avidly taunted him for it, but he refused to rise to the little brat’s bait. He held his shoulders broad and high, and felt confident. The turquoise contrasted nicely against his pale skin, and he smoothed his charcoal grey waistcoat over his checkered tie. He unlatched his gold watch; the coloring was all off. He found a sleek onyx number that complimented the look completely.

He smirked. This internship was his.

He’d done his research. Dr. John Watson was the finest trauma surgeon in London. The man graduated from St. Bart’s, served tours in Afghanistan, where he perfected combat medicine. The entire region sent the most serious of its traumas to his doors; by helicopter if necessary. And, luck have it, the doctor was advertising for a pre-law intern. Mycroft wasn’t pre-law, _per se_ , but he was confident he could make his case. He suspected the doctor needed someone to collect and interpret legal documents pertaining to malpractice suits; most likely caused by traumatic brain injury, if his specialization was any clue.

Mycroft knew the ins and outs of public government documents; his fascination with politics started small, at the local level in grade school and grew to the national level in the last few years. He wanted to break into the global scene, but without practical handiwork, references, and connections, he would never lift off, never venture outside the borders. Dr. John Watson would be the perfect stepping stone.

The fact that the blond doctor was fetching was just a bonus.

-o-

Mycroft sat in general office space, back straight, reading the most recent volume of Medical Law Review. Dr. Watson, the personal assistant told him, was finishing up a emergent ruptured appendix, and would be available shortly.

Mycroft noted with great interest that Dr. Watson’s PA was a brunet male in his mid-twenties. High profile men rarely hired male PAs. It might mean that this young man was especially skilled, but Mycroft quickly dismissed that possibility. The man had reacted far too slowly when Mycroft introduced himself; he was clearly taken aback by Mycroft’s age, and let it show. A competent assistant would have never allowed such a slip. Given a man of Dr. Watson’s talents, it seemed unlikely that he had chosen this man without merit, just the top pick in a pile of resumes. No, there had to be a reason. Most likely, the man was capable enough, and a nice bit of eye candy for the surgeon to enjoy.

_Curious, that._

Mycroft looked more closely at the PA. Attractive, but not overly muscular, more of the currently trendy academic nerd chic type. Just old enough, with enough facial hair to not succumb to the “twink” stereotype so prevalent in homosexual male pornography. So, the doctor wasn’t the type to have a bit on the side, or might even be oblivious of his own proclivities. Mycroft would have to meet him to be sure. He huffed in annoyance, he should be able to tell more at a glance. Again, yet another reason he needed further exposure to a more diverse range of people and more of the intricate details of social banalities.

He flipped the journal back open, and began reading again. After a quarter hour or so, the door opened, and Mycroft looked up. The doctor strolled in, patting his unruly hair down. His eyes were tired, bags deep underneath, and his firm jaw was scruffy and unshaven, at least 24 hours of growth depending on how quickly his facial hair came in. His white coat flapped open, pockets stuffed with various notes and references, pens sticking out haphazardly. His badge bore the hospital’s logo, and read ‘John Watson, MD. Dept. of Surgery’.

He nodded at his PA, and Mycroft noted that his gaze held for a moment or two longer than might otherwise be expected. But was he just tired? Mycroft shook off the thought. He wasn’t here to analyze the sexual preferences of the doctor. While it made a fun exercise in deduction while he was bored, it was now time to impress.

The PA nodded in his direction, and spoke to Dr. Watson. “Your two o’clock is here, John. Mr. Holmes,” he introduced, “Dr. Watson, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes.”

Dr. Watson turned and gave Mycroft a quick once over. His surprise at Mycroft’s age barely flitted across his face, but Mycroft caught it all the same. Mycroft extended his hand, and the doctor shook it firmly. Dr. Watson turned back to the young man, “Thank you, Andrew,” and then directed Mycroft with a wave of his arm, “This way, please.”

-o-

Mycroft sat on the opposite side of the old sturdy cherry desk as the doctor gathered himself. Mycroft used the quiet moments to examine the man; constantly practicing his skills. He wanted them to be a force of habit, to develop unconscious competence, like the automaticity of reading.

The books on the shelf overflowed, pushed in and out at various depths; they were used then, not for show. No degrees matted in hundred dollar frames shining on the walls; modesty. Rolodex on the desk; still not entirely comfortable with modern technology. No pictures of family; none then. Or none currently; a faded tan on the ring finger suggested the ring came off after last summer, but sentiment might have kept it until after he grieved the lost relationship.

The old printer in the corner screeched into an angry howl and Mycroft nearly jumped. Dr. Watson pulled out a sheet of paper, and reviewed it for a moment while examining Mycroft over the top; clearly Mycroft’s resume, then. “So,” Dr. Watson asked with a curious smile, “You’ve no medical experience, no law experience, and you look all of about twelve. I’m actually a bit intrigued – why should I hire you?”

“You expected me to be much older, based on my resume. Your PA admitted as such when he stared vacantly as I introduced myself. Not terribly subtle, is he?” Mycroft quipped.

“No, but he does a well enough job, and he’s the pretty sort.” Dr. Watson paused, then clarified, “You should see the gorgeous nurses that traipse through the office looking for him.”

Mycroft took a calculated risk, and looked out towards where Andrew would be if they could see him through the door, “I can see why.” He quirked one side of lips flirtatiously.

“See?” John intoned, implying Mycroft’s agreement proved his point, “You get it.”

 _Openly attracted to men it was_ , Mycroft observed, but quickly moved on.

“I do. But my point still stands. My qualifications are vast and varied enough for you to add at least a decade to my age. Why wouldn’t you believe my capabilities?” Mycroft used his well practiced diplomacy and soothing tone to turn the question back on Dr. Watson without putting him on the defensive.

“Well, for one, you’ve got five years work experience after uni. All kidding aside, exactly how old were you when you graduated?”

“I finished uni at twelve. I believe that should be indicative of my work ethic, quick learning ability, and intelligence. My prior experience with MP Dalton provided me with more than enough experience to sort, file, and interpret legal and government documents, and the forensic science course I took to appease my brother when I was fourteen means I understand enough medicine to know where and how to research the relevant terminology that I don’t currently have memorized. I believe that should suit your needs, should it not?”

Dr. Watson stared for just a moment, before blinking and minutely shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “That’s brilliant; how’d you know exactly what I was hiring for?”

“And that should tell you how capable I am at applying the aforementioned skills to the picture at large.” Mycroft grinned smartly, and within ten minutes, he was hired.

-o-

The next three weeks were delightful. Mycroft found Dr. Watson, who he was strongly encouraged to call John, engaging. John always beamed at Mycroft’s deductions, found his blunt manner, as well as his efforts at diplomacy, endearing. John smiled kindly, and Mycroft watched as John seemed to stand closer each week, more frequently touching his shoulder, his bicep, his arm as John directed him through the electronic medical records for the relevant information pertaining to the publicly available lawsuits.

John never crossed the line, although Mycroft did a time or two. Leaning over John’s shoulder, putting his hand over John’s as he directed the mouse, teaching John the exact movements and button clicks to make in the newly developed database. The position had the benefit of allowing him to talk softly in John’s ear and to witness the gooseflesh rise on the back of John’s neck.

But more than that, more than the touches and the glances, Mycroft craved the praise. His parents’ praise was disingenuine; they loved him and everything he did was clever and bright and wonderful. His brother derided him at every chance, and though he dismissed Sherlock quite easily, it was yet another arena in which praise lacked. The MP, his professors, the forensic science expert; they distrusted both him and his brilliance; they were cautious in the activities they assigned him, and carefully reviewed his work, looking for hidden deception and loopholes.

John praised honestly, with a wide toothy smile, the words ‘Amazing,’ ‘Clever,’ and ‘Extraordinary’ peppering his vocabulary daily. Mycroft preened internally under the praise, though he often teased John that a thesaurus might be necessary. He wouldn’t admit aloud that he wanted more praise, more compliments, more of the words that made him blush at night when he took himself in hand.

He wasn’t a virgin, but his deep attraction to John surprised him, sneaking up on him. Before, he appreciated the aesthetic qualities of others, but to crave the touch, to dream of soft kisses and vigorous fucking was a new experience. He found himself blushing more often and running gentle fingertips down John’s arm when he could get away with it. He subtly drew attention to his lips with small nibbles to brighten their hue, and deliberately styled the curl he once abhorred. It may not have been dignified, but he saw John dart his eyes upwards more than once with an unconscious lick of his lips. He wasn’t against pressing his full advantage.

Analytically, all signs pointed to a sexual and emotional attraction to his mentor. To a clever doctor with deft fingers, golden hair streaked with grey highlights, a sturdy, muscular build, and a smile to rival the Mona Lisa. A man twenty five years his senior.

It was improper. Indecent. And Mycroft could barely help himself. He settled on cold showers in the morning, hyper focus on his research, and pledged to stay at least three feet from John Watson at all times.

-o-

Mycroft followed Sherlock as the ten year old collected soil samples from randomized locations. Before they’d left, Sherlock overlaid a grid over the parks map, then rolled an eight sided die for each square meter of the park. He marked each ‘7’ on the map, then committed the map to memory. Now, Mycroft trailed after Sherlock, desperately wishing the impetuous scamp would have considered the implications of attempting to collect a soil sample from the middle of creek. He tried to convince Sherlock that real life data had missing values, and that it was equally important to analyze and understand how to handle those values.

Sherlock refused to see the logic in such an argument, so now Mycroft stood at the edge of the creek watching mud seep up the soles of his oxfords as Sherlock ruined a perfectly smart outfit wading into a dirty creek bed. He kept an ear on Sherlock’s soft splashing, though he didn’t expect the boy would drown in three feet of water, and he let his eyes wander to the rugby game in the next field. This was comfortable; enjoying the far away admiration of the blokes playing ‘skins.’

He had one awkward, painful fling four years ago, and ever since, limited his enjoyment to long distance appreciation of the male form. He supposed it was all for the best, though homosexual relationships were becoming more and more acceptable in England, if he were to ascend to the levels of government necessary to engage in manipulation of global events, it was unlikely he could sustain negotiations with Vladmir Putin while indulging the love and sentiment of his sexual preferences.

Sherlock yammered in his direction, but Mycroft ignored him. The boy had lately become all insults and biting commentary; the sweet affection of hero worship waned the year before last. He still loved the tedious wretch, but his tolerance of Sherlock’s cruelty faded long ago. Finally, Sherlock snapped, and hollered his name.

Mycroft whipped his head to the boy, just in time for the jagged rock to catch him on the temple. Mycroft cursed and pressed a hand to his head. He could feel blood dripping down the side of his face, and Sherlock’s eyes grew big with shock.

“You wicked little brat!” Mycroft snarled, the throbbing, bleeding mess breaking his impassive facade, “Get your filthy, sopping arse out of that muddy creek! I apparently need to seek medical attention from this vicious assault.”

Mycroft yanked off his tie with his free hand, and used the silk fabric to apply pressure to the wound. Sherlock scampered up the creek bed, and Mycroft grabbed his wet collar, forcing the boy to keep up with his long strides. Mycroft didn’t get far, when he heard his name called out. He paused, looking around.

“Mycroft!” the voice called again.

Mycroft swiveled to see John jogging over from the rugby game he’d been watching earlier. He stuttered for a moment at John’s tanned, muscular flesh, then blushed. John had been one of the ‘skins’ he’d been watching earlier. He hadn’t realized just how strong the doctor was under the green scrubs and lab coat. Finally, after several awkward seconds, Mycroft found his voice, “Hello, John.”

John dragged him over to a nearby bench and forced him to sit. “I heard your brother call out your name; I figured not too many Mycroft’s out there. Then I saw him whip the rock at your head. Thought you might need a bit of assistance.” John lifted a black bag for Mycroft to see. “I’m the go-to for sports medicine for the teams,” he explained.

Mycroft blushed again; he was too distracted by the sweat dripping down John’s clavicle and pectorals to notice anything in the man’s hands. He felt the brush of shame from his lack of observational skills, and his neck felt hot despite the cloudy weather.

John shook him, firmly intoning, “Mycroft!” Mycroft snapped his head up, and John sighed, “You weren’t answering me for a bit there. I’m worried you might have a concussion.” John pulled out a flannel from his bag and drenched it with a bit of rubbing alcohol, “This might sting,” he warned.

John reached with one strong hand, cupping the side of Mycroft’s jaw opposite the wound; Mycroft bit back a sigh of contentment. John reached up with his other hand, and gently cleaned the wound. As John warned, it burned, and Mycroft pulled away, but found John’s warm hand against his jaw steady and firm.

Sherlock hissed at Mycroft’s reaction and anxiously grabbed his wrist. He looked between Mycroft and John, catching Mycroft’s eye. Mycroft bit his tongue, grateful for the distraction, and introduced, “Sherlock, this is Dr. John Watson. He’s the physician for whom I am reviewing medical and legal casework. Dr. Watson, this is my younger brother, Sherlock.”

“’Lo, Sherlock,” John greeted, but didn’t lose sight of Mycroft. He pulled out a small torch from his bag and shined the light in Mycroft’s eyes. He listed instructions to look in the distance, look closely, asked if Mycroft was feeling nauseous or particularly tired. John offered his hand to Mycroft to help him stand, had him jump around a bit, on one foot then the other, and requested he recite the last legal case Mycroft had reviewed.

Mycroft passed the simple tests with flying colors; no dizziness, cognitive impairment or confusion. John smiled, and patted Mycroft softly on the jaw, “Looks good, Mycroft. No signs of a concussion.”

“He’s emotional,” Sherlock declared. “That’s a symptom.”

“He’s not any more emotional than I’ve seen him,” John commented, but indulged the clever boy, “What do you see, Sherlock?”

“Well, his pulse is elevated and his eyes are dilated and he’s flushed. All signs point to sexual attraction. But Mycroft doesn’t _like_ people. So if he’s attracted to you, I think he’s got a concussion.” Sherlock stated frankly, turning to John.

John smiled and his cheeks grew a bit red as he turned to Mycroft, “I don’t imagine that’s a symptom of concussion, is it, Mycroft?”

Mycroft looked down at John’s suggestion, refusing to make eye contact, until he heard Sherlock cry out, “Wait! Your eyes are dilated too, Dr. John!” Sherlock grabbed for his wrist, “What’s your resting heart rate? Maybe you’ve got a concussion, too!”

John’s eyes grew wide, and he stood up quickly. “I think we’re good here.”

Sherlock nodded agreeably, then grimaced, “Yeah, you’d have to have a concussion to like Mycroft; he’s so fat and boring. And _dull_.”


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft steeled himself before opening the door to John’s department. He wore a jacket in addition to his dress shirt and waistcoat to add an extra layer of formality. For John to suggest he’d noticed Mycroft’s little crush was appalling, and Mycroft was determined to set it right. John’s recommendation at the end of the semester couldn’t be tainted by emotion or sentiment or any of the other defects Mycroft so commonly derided.

He stood tall when he opened John’s door, and John looked up with a grin, “Feeling better today, are we?” John asked, with a nod to the small bandage covering Mycroft’s temple.

“Much, thank you,” Mycroft replied, “I planned on continuing researching Spencer v. Despereaux, if you haven’t reassigned the case to which I should attend?”

John sighed, and motioned to the chair on the other side of the desk, “Mycroft, please sit.”

Mycroft looked stoic, and sat ramrod straight. He waited for John’s dismissal, to be, to Mycroft’s disgust, sacked.

“You know that your brother is a complete idiot, right?”

Whatever Mycroft expected, that wasn’t it. “I’m sorry?” he inquired, failing to keep the confusion off his face.

“He’s an idiot. You aren’t fat, you aren’t boring, you aren’t dull. I know he’s your little brother and you’ve probably consciously dismissed all the bollocks he says.” John clenched one fist and gripped a blue ink pen with the other, tapping it on the desk. “But I’ve seen you around here and your demeanor suggests that you don’t think as highly of yourself as you ought. You have so much to offer beyond the future civil servant you present yourself as. It’s…”

John paused, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath, “Mycroft, you are a fascinating, brilliant, and attractive young man. I hope it isn’t inappropriate for me to say, but any person you might fancy would be lucky to have you.” He opened his eyes, and looked Mycroft in the eye, “I worry. You superficially dismiss your brother, but I worry you’ve taken his words to heart. He’s an idiot. You know that, right?”

Mycroft couldn’t look up. The layer of professionalism he’d attempted by wearing the jacket seemed to have disappeared, and in fact, he felt naked and laid bare before John’s honest confession. He twisted his hands, playing with the ring on his right hand, as he attempted to come up with some sort of response.

“Don’t worry about it,” John read his confusion and discomfort as easily as Mycroft could read his failed marriage. He stood and came around the desk to sit next to Mycroft. “I’ve actually arranged for you to shadow my next above the knee amputation. It’s about half an hour from now. Why don’t you go scrub in?” John placed a hand on Mycroft’s knee, as though he planned to pat it, but instead ran his thumb in circles soothingly on Mycroft’s thigh, and Mycroft soaked up the warmth of John’s touch.

Mycroft eyelids fluttered and he took a quick moment to enjoy the heat before John removed his hand. He sighed, then bit back a moan as John brought his hand up to cup Mycroft’s face. He turned Mycroft’s head to get a look at his bandage, “Good thing that’s high enough to be covered by the surgical cap.” John’s fingers lingered down Mycroft’s jaw as he stood up.

Mycroft was thankful for the distraction of a pending surgery, and darted out the door to the OR. He didn’t look back towards John, but couldn’t shake the feel of John’s touch off his face and thigh. He didn’t want to.

As he scrubbed in per the nurse’s instructions, he found himself contemplating exactly what John hoped to accomplish with his hesitant admission and tentative touches. John didn’t have to say anything, but he did. He didn’t have to touch Mycroft’s face, but he did. He didn’t have to call him fascinating and brilliant and attractive, but he did. He didn’t have to sit next to Mycroft and stroke his thigh, but he did.

Mycroft found his way into a corner of the OR, and within a few minutes, they rolled the young veteran in for her amputation. They’d cut off the foot above the ankle in the field, but it wasn’t enough. Once she was home, the infection spread, and the bottom half the leg needed to be sacrificed as well. Mycroft planted the information in the back of his head; into a little English town dedicated to war. He kept all his memories, facts, theories and knowledge in a map of England, and he wanted her pain and sacrifice to exist in the war town alongside the ‘greater good’ so that he didn’t forget the individual suffering involved.

John showed up soon after the patient was anesthetized and greeted the patient jovially, despite her being completely under. Mycroft watched with open eyes as John took command of the room. The nurses, the assisting physician, the nurse anesthetist; they all regarded John and his superiority with respect. He was kind, compassionate and considerate, but there was no doubt he controlled the room. That he owned the surgery, the OR and the patient’s body, which deferred to him, waxing and waning under John’s power.

Mycroft hid behind a surgical cart; his cock thick and hard and tenting his scrubs with painful betrayal.

John was _magnificent_.

-o-

John had dismissed Mycroft before he left, a few hours into the procedure. The surgeon let Mycroft know he’d be back to his office within the half hour, and Mycroft escaped, his erection waning. He found himself an empty men’s room and took deep, steadying breaths, holding tight to the counter until he felt more in control of his body. He failed, mind ever drifting to John’s smile, John’s tanned musculature, John’s prowess in the operating room. He deliberated on himself and his interests, on John, and John’s motivations.

He deliberated a bit further.

By all accounts, John was interested. Granted, his sample size was small, but all available signs suggested arousal. Even Sherlock saw it. All that remained was to act. Though Mycroft preferred intellect and stealth to bravado and brawn, he believed failure to act was the only true failure. And he couldn’t allow for that.

He stood tall and watched himself in the mirror. He imagined each of his options, the likely scenarios that could take place as a result. He watched his face, staring into the grey blue texture, pupils twitching as he pulled closer and further from the light source. He watched the minute movements as his features twitched into place. He may not have perfected stoicism, but he could choose which emotions and traits to portray. He played scenes in his head, and finally saw the confidence, influence, and risk radiate from his expression; the very portrayal of the man he was becoming.

Mycroft gave himself a small, dangerous half smile and then checked his watch. He had twenty minutes to prepare himself for John’s return.

-o-

Mycroft sat in John’s office chair, the leather well worn. He heard the departmental door open and Andrew greet his boss. John murmured something back in a pleasant tone; no surprises at the end of the procedure then. Mycroft felt his heart start to race; but he felt the self-assurance on his face, and knew this was no time to falter. The office door opened, and Mycroft stood slowly, eyes on John until the surgeon locked eyes with him.

“Everything alright there Mycroft?” John asked, puzzled, closing the door.

Mycroft’s devious plan came out in his smirk, with narrow, decisive eyes, “Not quite yet, Dr. Watson.”

He stalked over to John, crowding him against the door. He bracketed John between his arms, and took pleasure in hearing John’s breath hitch. Mycroft leaned in, his lips just inches from John’s, then detoured to whisper warmly in his ear, “But I’m sure everything will be quite fine soon enough.”

John gulped loudly, and Mycroft hummed with approval. “My-my-mycroft,” John stuttered, “This isn’t-“

Mycroft cut him off, leaning down to press his lips against John’s. He started softly, tentatively to gauge John’s receptiveness. John gasped, the heat of his breath against Mycroft’s mouth. He opened up, bloomed under Mycroft’s ministrations, and Mycroft growled with delight. He raked one hand through John’s hair, and pressed further against John, their bodies flush against each other. He could feel John’s arousal through the thin scrubs.

The hand that was at the back of John’s neck slid down John’s back, and Mycroft felt the hills and valleys of his back, from his strong trapezius, the firm latissimus dorsi, and the lightly padded softness of his obliques, down to the rounded flesh of his gluteus muscles. Mycroft _loved_ anatomy.

He pulled John forwards, walking backwards, his mouth never leaving the surgeon’s, reveling in their firm, tender warmth; ecstatic to feel John pushing back, trying to gain control of the kiss. Mycroft smiled into John’s mouth. John may have owned the operating room, but this moment belonged to Mycroft. At the last minute, Mycroft swiveled and pushed John down onto the couch in his office. John gasped, looking up at Mycroft with his chest heaving. He looked gorgeous like this, flustered and panting. Just the way Mycroft wanted him.

“Jesus, Mycroft. We can’t-“ John started, and froze as Mycroft straddled him. Mycroft hovered high above him, establishing his dominance as John looked up, eyes wide with want and submission. Only then did Mycroft slowly settle down into John’s lap, nibbling at John’s neck. He threaded his fingers through John’s hair and pulled, making John cry out as Mycroft licked a stripe up John’s neck and up the shell of his ear. John raised his hands to Mycroft’s hips, but barely held on, grip limp with surprise.

John groaned, and his mouth moved, but no words came out. Mycroft rocked against John’s lap, and felt John’s cock twitch underneath him. Mycroft faltered momentarily, “ _Fuck, John._ ”

The utterance made John groan, and the shock of Mycroft’s curse spurred him into action. He held tight to Mycroft’s hip with one hand and slid his other hand to Mycroft’s arse. He gripped firmly; pressing up into Mycroft and pulling the boy more deeply into his lap. “God, you’re gorgeous,” John panted, seeking to pull Mycroft tighter and harder against him.

Mycroft pulled back and laughed, “Oh, no, Doctor Watson. It’s my turn to own the room.”

He pushed John’s hands up to the back of the couch, and holding them there. He slowed his pace, lazily rotating his hips as John’s fists whitened as he held tight to the sofa. Mycroft moaned, feeling the heat of John underneath him; the feel of John’s cock thick and hard. He shuddered, gooseflesh rising on his forearms as John panted; refusing to move his hands from where Mycroft had placed them. John, the powerhouse surgeon and soldier, obeying his whims. Mycroft felt dominant, alive, and bold.

Mycroft let his fingertips dance down John’s chest, and wiggled back far enough to let his fingers dip below the elastic of John’s scrubs. John arched his back and growled, and Mycroft snapped his hand away. “Patience, John,” he smirked, and licked his lips.

John growled, “Fuck, you’re a tease. A brilliant, gorgeous fucking tease.”

“No teasing,” Mycroft stood. “Stay,” he ordered John, as his fingers deftly unclasped his trouser button, and pulled down the zipper.

John gasped, and his cock tented his scrubs. Mycroft could see a small wet spot on the thin green fabric, and given that last confidence, he slid the slacks down off his hips. They fell to his feet and John groaned, “You’re not wearing pants?”

Mycroft leaned over and slid his fingers under John’s elastic. John lifted his hips as Mycroft pulled the scrubs down and John sharply inhaled as his cock bobbed free.  Mycroft licked his lips again at the sight, and ran a single fingertip from the slit at the top, down the pulsing vein on the underside. John twitched and gasped again as he struggled to stop himself from thrusting into Mycroft’s touch.

“How the- you are amazing,” John breathed, and put up a token protest, “You shouldn’t-, you can’t-“

Mycroft knelt before him, and licked a stripe up his cock. John jolted forward, pulling his cock from Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft looked up, a look of amused annoyance on his face. “I was enjoying that,” he snarked.

“You- Jesus, fuck-“ John huffed, and relaxed back to his original position.

“You are terribly articulate, doctor. I must say, I’m not sure which side of you I prefer: the master of the OR or the sputtering, docile, submissive treat laid out before me.” Mycroft barely knew where his confidence was coming from, but he mined every bit of it he could. He came back up to straddle John once more, “You’re going to fuck me now, and you’ll do it right.”

Mycroft lined himself with John’s cock, and John startled, “No! Not without-“ Mycroft grinned, and John howled as Mycroft opened with slick ease as John breeched him.

Mycroft gasped as John filled him, the stretch and burn more than the preparations he’d undergone in the men’s room with the medical grade lubricant. The mild pain was replaced by extensive pleasure and Mycroft nearly shouted. Electricity ran up his spine, and he thrust his head back as he rocked himself back as deep on John’s cock. “John, please, fuck me right! Fuck me harder!”

John’s hands finally left the back of the couch and seized Mycroft’s hips. He held tight as he thrust up into Mycroft’s tight slick hole, and Mycroft cried out wordlessly. He used the leverage of his knees on the cushions for force himself on John, and John pulled him faster and deeper than Mycroft thought possible. He leaned in, seeking the heat of John’s lips, and licked into John’s open, panting mouth.

John’s hands drifted under Mycroft’s button down shirt, and Mycroft felt a moment of panic. His hands quickly left the leverage of John’s shoulders and pushed John’s hands back down to his hips. They might be soft, but Mycroft preferred them to his belly. He looked down, avoiding John’s eyes at the correction, and refocused on the thickness, hot feel of John’s cock inside him.

Mycroft worked hard to impale himself on John, to take in every little millimeter he could, to feel the width of John spreading him wide open, knowing that he’d cringe every time he sat for the next twenty four hours. John seemed to be aiming for the same goal, to fuck the competency out of Mycroft, to leave him babbling and begging for more.

Mycroft held back, bouncing on John’s cock, trying to hold tight to his consciousness, to not fall to senseless animalistic desire. John’s thrust jolted through him, each jerk of Mycroft’s hips accompanied with the pull of John’s hands, the rabid desire of a man consumed. Mycroft let his body go nearly lax and John fucked up into him,  filling him over and over again.

Mycroft’s eyes crossed as he threw his head back and stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t focus his sight, all his focus was on feeling and sensation and touch and he cried out, “Please, John, I’m so close!”

John looked up at him, and Mycroft saw concern flash through his eyes as John realized he’d momentarily forgotten his earlier protests. Mycroft shook his head, “No John, it’s just me. It’s okay, I want you. I need you. I need you to fuck me, I need your hand on my cock, _please John_.” The last thing he needed at this moment was John to have a crisis of age, of homosexuality, of faith. Any crisis really. Mycroft just needed to come.

John obeyed wonderfully, taking Mycroft in hand as Mycroft forced himself down on John as hard as he could. John’s hand was dry and he realized it soon, offering it up to him. Mycroft licked his hand, laving the hand with saliva, tonguing the sensitive valleys between John’s fingers, and feeling John grip his hip harder as he did.

John pulled Mycroft down hard, then encased Mycroft’s cock in his now slick hand. John pumped fast and hard, in the same rhythm Mycroft bobbed on his cock. Mycroft huffed and groaned as fire burst through his veins. John’s touch was ecstasy and his cock was an all encompassing pleasure buried deep inside him and with a final thrust, Mycroft cried out John’s name, pulsing thick white strips of come on John’s scrubs.

John growled, his heat pulsating through Mycroft and Mycroft’s slack body could barely take the elation. John bolted up, holding tight onto the young man’s body as he did so. He vaulted Mycroft onto the desk, and Mycroft cried out as John thrust even deeper inside him, finding the most spectacular angle. John pulled hard on the tops of Mycroft’s thighs, pulling Mycroft harder onto his cock, as Mycroft’s passive form took the older man in.

Mycroft’s cries echoed through the room, but clearly John didn’t care, as he kept thrusting harder. He pulled Mycroft’s legs over his shoulders and plowed into the young man, fresh faced and in euphoric pleasure below him. Mycroft could barely imagine how he looked, but found he didn’t care. Even after he’d come, John spurred pleasure through his body, alighting his every nerve, sending bliss throughout his every cell, and despite having come just minutes ago, Mycroft grew hard once again.

John huffed as he looked down, “Fuck, to be seventeen again,” and continued his invasion into Mycroft’s body. Mycroft felt John slow his pace, then those nimble fingers started at the buttons of his shirts. Mycroft offered up a feeble, “I don’t-“ but John looked up with a fire in his eyes, “Please, Mycroft, you’re beautiful, stunning. I told you. I meant it. I want to see all of you.” He waited, fingers still on the buttons, waiting for permission to move. Mycroft nodded.

John finished unbuttoning Mycroft’s shirt, and loosened his tie. Mycroft held his breath, intensely inspecting John’s features for displeasure. To Mycroft’s relief, John looked down with unabashed affection. John leaned over, pressing a delicate kiss right above his belly button all the while keeping a slow rhythm. He leaned over to flick Mycroft’s nipple with his tongue, and Mycroft arched his back, delight sizzling through his nerves. John chuckled. He set a slightly faster pace while he attended to the sensitive nubs; it felt to Mycroft that John was intent on breaking him into tiny little pieces.

Mycroft felt worn with rapture, feeling the sensitivity of John’s cock thrusting into his nearly virgin arse. He moaned and growled, but lacked the heat to convince John to stop; he was completely at the mercy of the surgeon.

Mycroft felt his control slip away, but he barely cared. To be owned by John Watson was to be cherished and cared for; just like the patients in his OR. Well treated, and perfectly offered up like a sacrifice to the altar that was Doctor Watson’s attention.

John slammed into him; Mycroft could tell he was close. The urgency, the pace, Mycroft moaned with satisfaction, and John bit back a scream as he burst into Mycroft, each pulse soaking him with the wet heat of his come. Mycroft growled as John buried himself into him, and Mycroft knew that he was close once again.

“Please, John, just a little bit more,” Mycroft begged, his second orgasm close. John pulled out, and Mycroft felt the evidence of John’s pleasure seep out of him. He nearly came from the filthiness of it all, but then John engulfed his cock in hot, wet, warmth. Mycroft cried out, coming for the second time in less than half an hour, this time into John’s gorgeous mouth.

“John!” Mycroft moaned, and John beamed at his skills. John swallowed emphatically, and Mycroft gasped at the sensitivity as John’s throat spasmed around his cock.

“John,” Mycroft panted, “that was _glorious_.”

John took the time to slowly clean Mycroft’s cock with his tongue, until the boy was squirming beneath him. “Fuck,” John commented, “you are fantastic. Unbelievable.” He stumbled back onto the couch, pulling his scrubs back on. Mycroft sat up and let his legs dangle off the desk John had thoroughly fucked him against.

Mycroft agreed with a half drunk smile, buttoning up his shirt, “Likewise, _doctor_.”

“Oh, shut up,” John chastised playfully. “Call me John, or nothing at all.”

“Very well then, John.”

“It really isn’t on for you to be so exquisite,” John praised, and Mycroft felt his cheeks redden. Rarely was he complimented, rarely did anyone flatter him for his wit, cleverness, and touch. His emotions floated high; on cloud nine.

John heaved, lounged in the sofa, and panted heavily, “I uh, even before you came in today, I-“ John paused, then continued after a spell, “I can’t tell if this request is better or worse after all that.” He motioned to the desk and the couch.

“Should I put my trousers back on?”

John laughed, but nodded. “That would be best.” He took off his top and tossed it to Mycroft, “For the mess. If you’d done this someplace proper, I would have a flannel, or a shower, but I don’t have much in my office but a change of clothes.”

“Well, I could hardly stalk you to your home, could I, John?” Mycroft replied jovially. He cringed slightly as he slid off the desk, cleaned himself off, and bent down to fetch his slacks. John tilted his head to the side to catch a better look, “You’ve got a _phenomenal_ arse.”

Once dressed, Mycroft went around the desk and sat back in John’s office chair. He steepled his fingers professionally and spoke eloquently, “You were saying?”

John smiled affectionately and murmured, “Like I said, _exquisite_.” He coughed, then sat forward, elbows on his knees. “I was offered a fellowship,” John said. “To the States, to learn about their healthcare system; their residency education. It’s six months. I want you to come with me.”

“You want me to go with you? To the States.” Mycroft asked in disbelief. “What would I do?”

“I’ve been offered a temporary flat, you’d stay with me. You’ll collect data for research, for quality improvement, whatever I need. I want you there.” John shrugged with small smile, “I want you in general.”

Mycroft ran through his options, a quick review of outcomes in a half or second or less. “If I come, we’ll be together. We’ll fall in love. You’ll panic. Question yourself. Question us. Perhaps leave. I won’t know what to do without you.” Mycroft, looked up, afraid of what his honestly might cost.

“You won’t love me when we’re done. I’m too young. Too inexperienced. Too… _everything_.” Mycroft sighed.

“I haven’t wanted anyone since my ex-wife. It’s been two years,” John offered, “Please. Let’s try. Worst case scenario, I’ll give you an amazing reference and you’ll never have to see me again.”

John cleared his voice, and kept going, “I know it’s crazy. I know you’re young and honestly, it’s more likely that you’ll find someone better than me than the other way ‘round. But I want to enjoy you while I can.”

Mycroft gulped; to hear John express his exact fear was nerve wracking. Mycroft collected his thoughts and took a deep breath. He’d always told Sherlock that caring was not an advantage, and he was right. Mycroft’s entire heart and soul lay on the line, and he was still willing to take the risk; a risk that could destroy him. And it didn’t matter. Anything would be worth John. He’d fallen into this trap of sentiment, and he could only see on out.

“Okay,” Mycroft nodded, with a sincerity he didn’t know he possessed, “When do we leave?”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com).  
> You can find more Johncroft at [MycroftandJohn](http://mycroftandjohn.tumblr.com).


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